Amanda Scott (8 page)

“I felt like a freak at a fair,” she told him as he retied the bundle of clothing to his saddle. “Did the things fit him?”

“All but the shoes,” he said, turning to help her mount. “Jacket don’t fit as snug as it ought, but I daresay anyone thinking about it will put that down to his being foreign. I thought we’d be at a standstill over the shoes though, for after all, even a foreign count wouldn’t be likely to dine barefoot, but Salas said he knows where he can come by a pair.”

“Legally, I hope.”

He grinned at her. “As to that, I didn’t want to ask. Told him to come to town tomorrow so I can rehearse him. I’ll let him know the exact date of his performance when we know ourselves.”

She nodded. “I’ll speak to Godmama today. I think we can arrange it for Thursday evening. Will that suit you?”

He agreed, adding that the sooner it was done the better.

“You won’t forget?”

“Certainly not,” he retorted, offended.

Carolyn apologized, twinkling, and they parted amiably at Bathwick Hill House a half hour later, with Brandon agreeing that she should send word to him at Royal Crescent just as soon as she had spoken to Lady Skipton.

She did so at once, and the dowager, despite making a number of disparaging remarks about foreigners in general, was as pleased as Carolyn had thought she would be at the notion of entertaining a count who would not make himself available to her rival members of Bath society to entertain. When Lady Skipton began at once to discuss her menu with Miss Pucklington, Carolyn ventured to say, “I hope Sydney will dine with us, ma’am. ’Twould be a shame for him to miss meeting the count.”

“He will not neglect to do full honor to a visitor to this house,” the dowager said firmly.

Carolyn was on tenterhooks for the next three days, and the arrival of Thursday evening did little to calm her. Despite several messages from Brandon, assuring her that everything was in train and that she would have nothing to blush for in her guest, she could not help being afraid that Sydney would take one look at Salas and know him for a gypsy. Thus, she was gratified to see, when the butler announced their guests, that Mr. Saint-Denis, precise to a pin as always, greeted them both with his customary politeness and showed not the slightest sign of believing Salas to be anything but what he professed to be.

“Like you to meet m’ friend, Count Salas von Drava,” Brandon said glibly to the company at large as he drew Salas forward.

Carolyn had all she could do not to stare. Never for one moment would she have believed that the handsome, well-dressed man who clicked his heels together and bowed to Lady Skipton and Miss Pucklington, then turned to nod with aristocratic arrogance at Sydney was the same man she had met at the camp. If he had seemed lordly then, he was regal now as he looked down his nose at Sydney much, she thought, as if he beheld a toad.

“Welcome to Bathwick Hill House, von Drava,” Sydney said.

“Not
von Drava
,” Salas said, his smile indicating that he had elected to treat Sydney as an equal. “Am Salas to friends. And this beautiful lady,” he added, turning toward the dowager, “she is your
dai
, your mother? But she is too young!”

He was talking far more than Carolyn had intended him to talk, and she glanced anxiously at Brandon. Receiving no more than a shrug in response, she turned back to see that the dowager, beaming with pleasure, had held out her hand for Salas to kiss. Carolyn was startled to see the gypsy bend without hesitation and with singular grace to do so, and even more startled when she caught him peeping up at her through his thick lashes, his eyes alight with mischief.

Miss Pucklington came in for her share of attention, too, and seemed to look upon their visitor with benevolence. As the evening progressed, Carolyn relaxed more and more, certain that their prank would go undiscovered. There was one bad moment, however, when Sydney asked where Salas’s home was located.

Carolyn glanced quickly at Brandon to see that he looked as disconcerted as she felt.

Salas was unperturbed. “Dravos,” he said, frowning. “How to tell you, who know nothing of my country? It is
dromo
—how you say—wild, not like here. Has few farms, no hedgerows, only many high mountains. Far away—many days’ travel.”

“Near Hanover, I expect,” Lady Skipton said. “’Tis a pity our royal family has not the benefit of a true English heritage, do you not agree, Count?”

Salas blinked at her, but Brandon, seizing the opportunity, said hastily, “Even an English heritage ain’t been of much use to those members of the Royal family who’ve got one, ma’am. Only look at that wicked devil Cumberland, accused of murder and even worse, if we but knew it. Won’t let poor Prinny alone. Follows him everywhere, frightening him into thinking he wishes him ill. And Prinny, born and bred here but treated like a dashed outsider by Parliament whenever he wants his allowance raised. Feel for him, I do. In my experience, a man’s allowance ain’t never sufficient to his needs.”

This diversion was successful, and Carolyn gladly assisted him in encouraging the dowager to criticize the royal family in general and the Prince Regent in particular. Catching Sydney’s gaze resting upon her for a long moment, she was conscious of a wish that he would look elsewhere, but in spite of that brief interlude, the conversation continued without anyone’s attempting to return to the dangerous topic of Salas’s antecedents.

Custom notwithstanding, Lady Skipton was not about to allow her son to monopolize their guest and informed the gentlemen that she was certain they would prefer to have their port served in the drawing room rather than to remain in the dining room, and no one attempted to gainsay her. Brandon, however, believing it unwise to tarry, soon invented another engagement for his companion and bore him off. When they had gone, Sydney gave Carolyn another long look, but although his expression gave her pause, she relaxed when, saying that he had matters to attend to in his library, he bade the ladies good night and left the room.

Alone with the dowager and Miss Pucklington, Carolyn sat torn between wanting to run straight to the library to reveal what she had done and wanting to stay right where she was to savor her victory. Lady Skipton, with Hercules curled in her lap, began to recount each detail of the evening to her companion, as though Miss Pucklington had not been there, and Miss Pucklington, knitting placidly, responded with only the added color in her cheeks and the glint of excitement in her eyes to reveal her pleasure at having dined with a foreign nobleman. Watching and listening, Carolyn felt a sudden need to remind them that their guest did not want his presence in Bath talked about.

“Gracious, no,” the dowager agreed, stroking the spaniel. “I daresay he may even be in England on a secret mission for his government, and one would in no way wish to jeopardize such an undertaking. I shall not even write to tell Skipton about the honor afforded us until Count Salas is safely away again.”

“To think,” Miss Pucklington said with a gentle sigh, “that the count trusted us with such knowledge. It quite puffs one up in one’s pride, does it not?”

Carolyn’s heart sank. Before that moment she had thought only of fooling Sydney. The dowager and Miss Pucklington had meant no more to her than extraneous characters in a play. But now she saw difficulties ahead and wondered if she would be at all wise to tell Sydney what she had done.

The dowager, having diverted herself by mentioning her elder son, said, “Did I tell you I had a letter from Swainswick today?”

Miss Pucklington nodded, but she might as well not have responded at all for the heed that was paid her, and Carolyn, knowing the gist of the letter if not the content, fixed an expression of interest on her countenance, certain that no more than that would be required of her.

“Poor little Harriet has got a sore throat again, and still Matilda fails to reprove the children’s governess for keeping her out so long in inclement weather. I shall have to write to Skipton, and I daresay it is not too early to be putting a flea in his ear about the danger of allowing so sickly a child as young Stephen to go off to Eton. What do you think, Judith?” However, she did not pause long enough for her companion to answer, nor did Miss Pucklington seem anxious to do so.

Not, Carolyn thought, that it would have been prudent for Miss Pucklington or anyone else to suggest that the informant might be biased, since most information about the household at Swainswick came from the nurse who had served the dowager Lady Skipton since his present lordship was six weeks old, and who now served his lordship’s household in the same capacity. It was no secret that Nurse Helmer held the children’s governess in great aversion, although Miss Rumsey’s only fault, as nearly as Carolyn could discern it, was that she had had the misfortune to have been selected for her post by the children’s mother, rather than by their grandmother or their nurse.

While Lady Skipton continued verbally to dissect her elder son’s household into its many objectionable parts for the edification of her companion, Carolyn was able to consider what might be the best way to inform Sydney that despite his self-proclaimed ability to read male character, he had been well and truly fooled by a spurious count. She still had not decided what to do by the time the dowager announced it was time to retire, but she no longer had any urge to burst in upon him to gloat over her victory. A more subtle approach was required.

She wracked her brain while her abigail prepared her for bed and for nearly half an hour after the girl had gone. No idea came to her then or in her dreams, which were full of foreign counts and swashbuckling heroes, the last of whom chose to lock her, for unspecified reasons, in the highest turret of his great stone castle. When the crash awakened her, at first she had the odd notion that the castle walls were tumbling down and that she was falling with the turret stones, to certain death.

She sat bolt upright, trembling, telling herself instantly that she was a fool to allow a nightmare to frighten her. But when a second crash came, followed by more bumping and banging noises, she realized that the noise came from below, either from the drawing room or from the library beneath it, on the ground floor. Jumping out of bed and snatching up a robe to fling over her nightdress, she flew barefoot out of her bedchamber and down the stairs and, when the drawing room proved to be empty, down the grand stair to the hall.

The library door stood open, and the lamp on the desk cast an orange glow over a scene that astonished her. Salas, no longer in his finery but in the shirt and breeches he had worn the first time she laid eyes upon him, was lying on the carpet beside the desk, trussed up like a Christmas goose, with Sydney’s man leaning over him, tying a knot in the rope. The only other person in the room was Sydney, wearing an elaborate green brocade dressing gown and observing Ching Ho’s captive through his quizzing glass. The only sign that he was at all perturbed was that he neglected to lower the glass when he looked at Carolyn, and she was suddenly reminded of the time she had rubbed stove blacking around its gold rim so that after he pressed it to his eye, he had looked as though someone had hit him. That prank had been one of her more successful efforts.

She wondered where the others who had helped Ching Ho subdue the powerful gypsy had got to; then, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantle and seeing that it was past three o’clock, she decided Sydney must have already sent them back to bed. “What happened?” she asked, glaring at Salas and dreading the reply.

Ching Ho looked at his master, whereupon Sydney lowered his quizzing glass, glanced casually at the gypsy, then back at Carolyn and said, “You will catch a chill.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, looking at Salas again, surprised to see a twinkle in his eyes. “What is he doing here, and why have you got him all tied up?”

“I should think the answers to both questions would be painfully evident,” Sydney said, looking again at the gypsy. “Your Count Salas von Drava here, decided to help himself to those valuables upon which he could most immediately lay his thieving hands. Not the most acceptable way to repay one’s hospitality, I should have thought, but then I believe Romanys possess a uniquely original notion of property rights.”

“You know he’s—” She broke off, looking sharply at Ching Ho. “That is …” Flushing, she bit her lower lip, then looked back at Sydney, unable to continue.

“Caro,” he said in a tone of gentle reproof, “this fellow peppered his conversation tonight with Romany words. Or did you think I was unaware of the camp, which is on my own land and not precisely concealed? I couldn’t think what you and Manningford were about with your foreign counts, but although I saw no necessity for raising a dust over the matter at dinner, I do draw the line at allowing my possessions to be misappropriated.” He gestured toward a collection of articles on his desk that had clearly been removed from the cloth bag lying beside them. Then, looking directly at her, he said, “Shall I ring for a servant to escort you back to your bedchamber?”

She hesitated, wondering why it should disturb her to have him look at her so, but Salas moved just then, drawing her attention. “What are you going to do with him?”

“You and I will discuss the matter further in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime, I would prefer that you say nothing to my mother about her erstwhile guest’s attempted burglary. Or to Cousin Judith, if you please.”

She nodded, able to discern no threat in his voice, only calm, but she knew he must be vexed, and while she told herself firmly that she did not fear his anger, she could not pretend that she looked forward to hearing what he would say to her in the morning. Glancing again at the gypsy, she saw that he was relaxed despite what must be an uncomfortable position, and she felt a surge of irritation. A common thief ought at least to fear the consequences of being caught in the act, but the gypsy clearly feared Sydney’s wrath no more than she did. Perhaps less. Salas’s manner was not precisely insolent, but he was clearly amused by something she did not understand.

“You will forgive me,” Sydney drawled, “if I suggest that your attire is not appropriate to the company. Ching Ho has, of course, inured himself to the oddities of western culture—chiefly to those habits of western women that would be forbidden to Chinese ladies—and doubtless your friend Salas won’t object to your nightdress, but if you mean to remain here, you ought at least to fetch your slippers.”